


Apprentice Heart

by Xanateria



Series: Learning a Craft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Het and Slash, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Open Marriage, Other, POV John Watson, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Slash, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanateria/pseuds/Xanateria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a person with a talent for repression, when the occasion calls for it. He’s had to be. No one could live with Sherlock bloody Holmes and not have the occasional definitely not platonic thought. After Sherlock comes back from the dead, John refuses to allow himself to consider that his feelings may be deeper than that.</p><p>But he married a woman who sometimes knows him better than he knows himself. Just as John realizes it is possible to love two people at the same time, Mary decides she won't be the reason John doesn't deal with his feelings just because they happen to be married now. The consequences will change things for all three of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apprentice Heart

**Author's Note:**

> The main pairing in this story is John/Sherlock. However, it also contains John/Mary and has been tagged John/Mary/Sherlock because all three of them are definitely all involved in making these relationships work, even if the three of them aren't romantically involved. And it is possible I may explore that in later parts in any case.
> 
> Okay, so I am supposed to be finishing my Pretender/Sherlock crossover. Then I watched Sign of Three and I was really struck by the dynamics between the three of them, especially when Mary says there are limits. That spawned the bunny that became this story. My profound thanks to annieb1955 and NaiyaAzurewater for beta reading above and beyond the call of duty. Any remaining mistakes should be blamed on grammar and punctuation gremlins. Not Brit picked beyond the basics, but I would love to add a Brit beta reader to my harem...I mean team. Please message me if you are interested.

  
_Every person’s heart is an apprentice that can only learn if they accept that pain is inevitable but choose to love anyway._

John considers himself a fairly self aware person. He just also happens to be a person with a talent for repression, when the occasion calls for it. He’s had to be. No one could live with Sherlock bloody Holmes and not have the occasion definitely not platonic thought. It just isn’t possible. But the man’s made it clear he isn’t interested in relationships and John isn’t about to start pushing in where he isn’t wanted, no matter how much his subconscious likes to torment him.

Fortunately, Sherlock either fails to notice most things to do with emotions, including desire and all its derivatives, or simply doesn’t find them interesting, and deletes them. Either way, the fact that John occasionally ponders what he’d look like spread out on his nicer set of sheets, or bent over the rather ridiculous sofa doesn’t merit notice, nor does the fact that wanting might occasionally turn to more than that, if he’s completely honest. Keeping the different parts of what he feels separate gets a bit complicated, even if it is necessary. But John H. Watson doesn’t back down from a challenge.

He still remembers the burn of regret in the days after the fall, how the shame of it rose up to choke him at the oddest moments. He’d told himself so many times over the years that it was better he not say it, not burden his friend with sentiment that would only make him uncomfortable. In reality, he’d been too scared of losing his friend to tell him the truth. Oh sure, he’d wanted the man, who wouldn’t? But he’d loved him for almost as long as he’d known him, been in love with him for just about as long and never said a word.

And then Sherlock was gone and the knowledge that he’d stayed silent was almost worse than the gaping void where all the things that made his life feel alive used to be.

Then he got his miracle, and Sherlock came back. The echoes of his own grief make things so very awkward for a while. It took a week for him to even so much as respond to Sherlock’s texts, and even longer before it didn’t feel like they were both trying too hard whenever they saw each other. And the sheer volume of rage inside him is harder to contain than he expects. They don’t talk about the black eye Sherlock ended up with, the night after they finally talked in person for the first time.

But the whole mess of it allows him some comfort. Whatever he may have felt Before, he can’t be in love with Sherlock anymore. And that’s good because he’s been with Mary for months. He loves her quite desperately, not the same way he loved Sherlock, but that’s better anyway. He’s already considering asking her to marry him, when he gets the call from Mycroft that Sherlock is alive.

Which is why John ruthlessly squashes the little voice that suggests oh-so-quietly that he might be wrong about his feelings about a certain overly dramatic consulting detective. Of course he forgives Sherlock eventually - no choice, really. You can’t stay angry at someone who does the wrong thing, but does it to save your life. 

John’s still living at 221b, since he couldn’t bear to give it up. Eventually, he allows Sherlock to move back in. And working together is still fantastic. 

One day he catches himself looking at the other man’s backside, but chalks it up to reflex. He eyes a drop of water as it tracks down his neck in the rain one afternoon and contemplates licking it off, but shoves the thought aside quickly, blames too much adrenaline. And it doesn’t mean anything that he gets lost in the sound of Sherlock’s voice while he rants about the sheer amount of stupidity he has to put up with one day. Anyone could do the same after days with no sleep.

And then comes the wedding. The best day of his life, it really is, attempted murder and all. Because that’s just them, isn’t it? Him and Sherlock, and even Mary helping. Makes sense really: she’s handled both of them right from the off. He just isn’t stupid enough to mention it to Sherlock, because nothing puts him in a mood faster than the suspicion he’d been handled. And it matters enough to her, that she put the effort in. That means she gets him, understands who he is and what he needs in ways no one has ever bothered to before, except Sherlock.

Despite what everyone thinks, he knows exactly what he’s getting into when he asks Sherlock to be best man. He hates that people expect the worst from Sherlock, but lets it go. And he could give two shits if Sherlock offends anyone. The truth is in short supply in the world, and no one who really matters will care. But, because he appreciates everything she does for him, he carefully explains the potential problems to Mary. She supports the decision wholeheartedly and doesn’t care a whit about the possible fallout.

Not even he expects to be so moved by his best friend’s words. He knows Sherlock cares, but in a show, don’t tell sort of way. So, of course the bloody speech nearly brings him to tears. And then things go from perfect to even better: of all the ways to find out Mary is in the family way, somehow it’s completely right that Sherlock tells them, that he is such an integral part of that moment.

But when they obey his instruction and go out onto the dance floor, the little voice comes back, and it won’t shut up. Because John wishes he could dance with both of them. Screw normal, and limits or whatever; he wants to celebrate the moment with the two people who matter the most to him. Marriage can’t dull his awareness of Sherlock; he knows when the other man goes for his coat and slides through the crowd to head out the door. For one long, dizzy instant, John wants to excuse himself, chase after his infuriating detective and bring him back where he belongs.

Then, as surely as if he were drenched with a bucket of cold water, common sense reasserts itself. Sherlock isn’t his after all, and no matter how tolerant the wife, some things are just not on. Running out on his own reception to fetch his best mate is more than a bit not good. So he ignores the little voice, and dances with his wife. But he’s relieved when he sees Lestrade intercept Sherlock with a few quiet words. And he ignores the pang in his chest when they’re both gone a few moments later.

When he looks at Mary, her face practically glows with happiness. He’s always thought she was beautiful, but never more so than right then. What he feels for her is so very complex, he isn’t sure it’s fair to call it love - the word doesn’t go far enough. Nothing will change that, not even the stupid part of his brain that won’t give up on fanciful daydreams. They whirl around the floor amongst well wishes from the crowd and he reminds himself that a bloke like him ought to count his lucky stars to have someone like Mary. Hell, all these months later and he still can’t quite fathom that she loves him back.

But, a few hours later, when they’re leaving, he has to slip into the loo to splash water on his face and take a minute to shake off the slivers of sadness that linger when he thinks of who’s missing. Ridiculous really, it isn’t as if he expects to take Sherlock along on the honeymoon. He just didn’t expect to miss him quite so much before they’ve even left for the airport. Guilt wells up then. He’s not a child; he knows he can’t have everything. Besides, it isn’t decent, to want someone else on the day he married his wife. And if the tiny, oh-so-quiet voice wonders why he has to choose, how he’s supposed to convince his heart he can only love one of them that way, well, that’s his business.

***

Practice makes perfect, they say. So, every time the feelings want to sneak out and grab at him, he puts them all away, deep down inside with all the rest of the things he’s careful not to think about.

Mary told him months ago that the destination for their honeymoon was a surprise, made him promise not to try and guess what she and Sherlock had cooked up. He can’t even get clues at the airport, since he never sees the inside of a terminal. They fly on a private jet, with no crew except for the pilots and he agrees to the blindfold until after they take off. There’s a tray of nibbles, with two small glasses of champagne waiting for them and Mary beams over at him as she helps herself.

The discreet card on the sideboard says _Congratulations to you both. I hope my contribution to the honeymoon makes up for my regrettable absence from what I am told was a lovely wedding. –MH_

Mycroft is one of a select few who can be an insufferable prat, even in writing, but John appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

They settle into their seats, too tired from the party to do much more than hold each other. He’s okay with that; the doctor in him wants to be sure she gets enough rest and he needs a chance to brace himself for what he’s in for when they land. Whatever tropical paradise caught Mary’s eye, he’s determined to enjoy it. There’s no reason to spoil her enjoyment simply because sun baked sand holds less than ideal memories for him.

He really should have known better than to think either of them wouldn’t already know that. But when they land in Reykjavík, he can do nothing more than gape while his wife grins at him, positively delighted with his reaction. 

“Iceland? You can’t tell me this is your dream honeymoon,” he tries to protest. 

But Mary only leans over to close his mouth and smiles before she kisses him. “Of course it is, it’s with you. Besides, I love the Northern Lights and we’ve our own private villa with its own hot spring, so we can watch them in comfort. Didn’t I tell you that you’d be in hot water, Mr. Watson?”

He grins back, and can’t find it within himself to care that he probably still looks more than a little stunned. “So you did, Mrs. Watson. Lead on. I place myself entirely in your capable hands.”

Her smile turns wicked then. “Not yet, but you will.”

A sleek silver limousine takes them straight to their accommodations. Both of them try their best to behave in the back seat. Some things are meant to be private, so they succeed, mostly. And they certainly don’t giggle while they try out all the lighting and music combinations the vehicle offers. 

Alone at the villa at last, it isn’t very long before they end up in the bedroom. And Mary presses up against him, her breath hot on his neck before she kisses him and demands he take off his clothes. He forgets about the discontent that lingers in the back of his mind, lets go of the sense that all was not quite right, and let himself sink into the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of knowing she wants him as much as he wants her.

When they are both naked on the very expensive sheets, he runs his hands over her breasts, then lower to stroke over her abdomen, slow and careful, once and then again. Their eyes meet, hers already glinting with the sheen of tears, his not far behind if he’s honest.

“I love you more than you can imagine, you and our baby,” he manages to tell her, speaking over the lump in his throat.

“Can you imagine, us with a baby?” she breathes back.

He shifts to put his weight on one arm, strokes a hand up to cup the side of her face. “Yes. I can.” It terrifies him, but he can see it: Mary in a rocker holding their child close. He can see it, and he wants it, so much that it’s a terror of its own. Life taught him a long time ago that the more attached you were, the more it hurt you in the long run. But he puts that aside too. And He tries very hard not to think about Sherlock’s promise to protect them. 

When they come together, there is heat and passion, but he can’t help himself, his touch slides toward awed when he reaches her stomach again. 

She gives him a look full of nearly amused understanding, then she proceeds unravel his control until he’s desperate enough that nothing matters except being inside her, and even when he is, he can’t get close enough. He knows he leaves fingertip bruises on her hips and raises red scratches on her back, but she only moans and begs for more, and leaves her own set of scratches on his back.

Her orgasm leaves her shaking, with tears pooling at the corner of her eyes. 

He stills for a moment and brushes them away with fingers that have found gentleness again. “Alright?”

Mary nods then, and thrusts up against him. “Better than.” Her inner muscles squeeze him, with that way she has that steals his breath, and it’s his turn to gasp and moan, as he leans down to taste her skin.

He comes with a wash of pure white pleasure that curls his toes, silences his thoughts and leaves him flushed and warm.

They both usually prefer to clean up, after. Instead they curl around each other, content and pleased with themselves, and fall asleep.

His new wife sprawls in her sleep which is a good thing, since he’s no longer near her when he lurches awake only a few hours later, caught between panic and despair. 

Both hands shake, his hair is damp with sweat, and there are tear tracks on his face. He wants to get up, get away from the echoes of the nightmare. He can still hear the clatter of automatic weapons fire, feel the ice that slicks his stomach when he realizes the body that falls isn’t any of them men from his unit, but Sherlock - who has just enough breath to beg John to save him before he bleeds out.

But it feels disloyal to leave the room on their first night as husband and wife. So he lays there and tries to will his heart rate to slow and his mind to settle. 

He waits nearly half an hour, but there’s nothing for it. He brushes a kiss across Mary’s temple, then slides out from under the blankets. The ridiculously soft dressing gown on the back of the door is a guilty pleasure as he pulls the door shut behind him and pads out into the open concept living space beyond.

He wants to pace, to move, to release some of the tension that coils through him. But no matter how long he paces, he knows it won’t help. He considers the telly: given the size of the satellite dish he’d seen on the way in there’d be more than enough channels to find something to watch. But he has no desire to wake Mary, and already knows nothing he could watch will erase the pictures etched in his mind.

He breathes out carefully through his nose and forces his fists to relax. After years of nightmares, he really should be better at dealing with their aftermath but his stomach still rolls and his eyes burn.

Another minute goes by; he counts each second. Then he gives in and fetches his phone off the counter. He needs to know that things are okay, otherwise his mind won’t let go of the loop from his dream. Sherlock dying in front of him, his blood hot and slick as it pours over John’s hands. He’d hoped that Sherlock’s return would end this particular variation of nightmare, but as usual his luck doesn’t hold in that department.

_How’s things? -JW_

Stupid question. Terribly unspecific, Sherlock would say. But he can hardly ask what he really wants to know.

_It’s late, John. Shouldn’t you be enjoying your connubial bliss? -SH_

_I have, thanks. Thought I should make sure the flat is still standing. –JW_

And that you’re okay, that you’ll still answer when I talk to you, however I do it, he thinks.

_I’m fine. So is the flat, despite the appalling lack of a decent murder since you left. –SH_

_Try not to get arrested if you get bored. I’m not there to bail you out. -JW_

John's happy. He is. But right then, he wishes he could divide himself in two and be there with Sherlock, to see his I’m so bored I could just shoot the wall face, and hear his annoyed huffs of breath.

_Yes, I’d noticed your absence. Had to make my own tea this morning. -SH_

Despite his still not quite even breathing, John’s lips quirk in a smile. Clearly Sherlock is fine. He can almost hear the annoyed drawl.

It’s late and the only light comes from the moonlight that streams in the window. Perhaps that’s why he lets himself feel it then, how much he misses his admittedly more than a little insane flatmate. The weight of it is an ache in the centre of his chest. Fortunately, there’s no one to notice, not even the man himself. Sherlock’s primary reaction would likely be puzzlement as he considers missing someone just sentiment - an illogical waste of energy. And John knows he’ll see Sherlock in a handful of days, but the weight still presses on him.

_You poor dear. However will you cope? -JW_

Part of him wants to give up the effort it takes to be lighthearted. But that might worry Sherlock. Besides, he feels better now and the dream is fading.

_If today is any indication, badly. Do hurry up and finish enjoying your[sex holiday](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/11august), John. It’s inconveniencing me. -SH_

The laugh catches him by surprise but is thankfully quiet. 

_You still can’t call it that. -JW_

_Go back to bed, John. You’ll need your rest, if my research on honeymoons is correct. -SH_

John smiles and resists the urge to draw out the conversation. 

He helps himself to a drink of water then goes back to bed, careful not to wake his new wife, and Mary presses backwards into him as he shifts to get comfortable. He falls asleep with a slight smile on his face, and sleeps deeply until morning. If he dreams at all, he has no memory of it when he opens his eyes.

Sunlight slants in the window, almost too bright, pushes him out of bed, despite the closeness of his warm and still quite naked wife. He decides to make breakfast in bed. It doesn’t take long to assemble juice, coffee, and her favourite cinnamon pancakes on a tray. 

The end of breakfast is lost to lazy morning sex and he ignores the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock when he wonders if they will manage to get out of bed at all during the trip. 

They try out the hot tub somewhat later, and it’s Mary who mentions him then.

“Sherlock would probably tell us exactly what kinds of microbes live in here,” she points out, with an expression of distaste.

It makes him smile because it’s true, but he watches her expression turn pensive. Before he can ask her what’s wrong, she speaks again.

“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Not being in each other’s pockets, I mean. Must be even more strange for you. ” The sympathy in her eyes makes him wary, though he can’t put a finger on why.

“We’ll be seeing him soon enough,” he tells her. “You’re what matters right now.”

“I know,” she tells him, a hand over his heart, and her eyes smiling, though her face is still serious. “I miss him though, the mad bastard. It’s okay that you do, too.”

He slides through the water and pulls her forward into a tight hug, because he needs to hold her, hopes that how grateful he is might somehow seep through his skin, because words are just not enough. “I’m the luckiest man in the whole world,” he tells her. 

“Yes, you are,” Mary agrees, and this time she grins at him, warm and impish, before she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him.

***

The day they return to London, the sky can’t quite make up its mind if it will drizzle or not. The humidity is a bit of a jolt, but it feels good to be back on familiar ground and John smiles as they make their way off the plane and head for the waiting car.

The plan for a leisurely afternoon of unpacking at Mary’s is derailed when she turns an unhealthy shade of greenish grey before they’re even on the tarmac. John bundles her into the back seat, and asks the driver to stop so he can pick up some supplies, and even manages to find some ginger tea.

They don’t live together yet; they plan to save that for when they can get a house of their own, and haven’t found the perfect one yet. John spends near to half his nights at her place, or did, until about a month before the wedding, when planning kicked into high gear and the three of them all but hibernated at Baker Street. Still, familiarity makes it easier to find everything he needs, and in short order, she’s had some crackers and ginger ale and is tucked into bed. 

It’s nothing if not proof that it’s a damned good thing women are left with the work that goes into gestating. Feeling more than a bit guilty, he steeps some tea and leaves it by her bedside. Even cold, it will help settle her stomach.

John nearly lies down with her; it seems the thing to do. But he’s not tired, and the idleness of even the few hours of the flight have left him restless, fairly twitching to do something.

The muted beep of a text alert sounds just as he walks into the lounge.

_You’re late. I trust there were no unfortunate accidents during your return trip? -SH_

_Terribly sorry to disappoint you, but it was just a touch of morning sickness, nothing nefarious. –JW_

_Pity. –SH ___

He knows better than to think Sherlock is lamenting that Mary is ill, rather than a lack of interesting and possibly illegal activity, but John can only smile. 

_Got a case? -JW_

_Not at the moment. Solved one earlier this morning and Lestrade claims he needs time to deal with paperwork. He also insisted he needs my statement on this case and several others I’ve not seen fit to provide him with. –SH_

_Paperwork isn’t fatal, Sherlock. –JW_

If John’s grin is a bit malicious, at least there are no witnesses. His restlessness fades a bit as he looks at his phone.

_Your hypothesis has not been proven. If you still insist I require sustenance at least once a day, you should join me for a meal when I have escaped this mind numbing tedium. –SH_

It’s tempting, more tempting than it should be, considering the circumstances. Before he can type a reply to decline, Mary calls his name.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, before he’s even all the way back into the bedroom, “just wiped out more than anything.”

He nods, not sure of her point. 

She shakes her head, just a careful little bit, and her eyes roll. “Go on. I’m sure you’ll have more fun with him than watching me sleep.”

__He looks at her, lets his face ask the question, and she laughs, small and quiet, but genuine enough._ _

__“Who else would text you when they know you’re just back from your honeymoon?” She answers his question with one of her own._ _

__And he has to give her that one. Still, he can’t go traipsing off, not with Mary sick but when he tries to tell her so, she shrugs off his attempts to object._ _

__“It’s better you go do something. We both know you’ll only worry over me if you stay and we have months more of this to get through, remember? I promise, I’ll call if I need you. Now go on. I’m sure there’s a fascinating corpse with his name on it or something.”_ _

__“Dinner actually,” he explains, as he fights the urge to snicker._ _

__“Oh,” says Mary, with what sounds suspiciously like disappointment. “Well, that’s fun too.”__

***

_I’m picking the place. I’ll meet you at Baker Street in an hour. –JW_

There is no reply, but that’s no surprise. When he’s concerned with maximum efficiency, Sherlock rarely bothers with so much as the bare minimum of social niceties, not even for appointments he instigates. It keeps life interesting, if nothing else.

John’s shaking rain out of his hair as he steps into 221b just under an hour later. The flat is quiet, not even the usual muffled sounds from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He throws his jacket on the proper hook and rounds the corner to move down the hall toward the bathroom. He’s only made it a few more paces when the door opens and Sherlock steps out, clad only in a towel that wraps around his hips.

John goes completely still when his eyes track over Sherlock’s towel clad form, and he can’t hold back the quiet sound of distress he makes, as he reaches out to grab the other man’s wrist before he can vanish into his bedroom.

He’s known for years that Sherlock uses his clothes as a form of armour against the expectations of the rest of the world. The man gets his pyjamas tailored for goodness sakes. No one cares that much about what they wear without good reason. So when he had come back even less inclined to be seen in anything less than two layers, John let it go as just another of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies. 

Now he knows exactly how wrong he was, but a part of him wishes he didn’t. There are marks all over his best friend’s formerly pale, unblemished skin: small, neatly edged rounds that look like cigarette burns dot the underside of his upper right arm, raised welts too clean to have come from anything but a knife criss-cross his back, small puckers that look to have come from broken glass are scattered on his heels and climb up the back on his left leg. The puckered ridges and valleys of a second degree burn wrap around to follow the edge of his scapula and spill around too close to his sternum. 

I’ll always be there, for all three of you. The words of Sherlock’s vow are too loud in his mind, as John realizes that Sherlock has been keeping that vow for far longer than he ever considered. The fact that he could join himself to Mary, that he stands here, breathing moist air, scented with mint and eucalyptus soap was a privilege Sherlock paid for with his own pain and suffering. And he has suffered, there is no question about that. The doctor in him considers the probable types of injuries for a moment, but he forces himself to stop before he loses control of his stomach.

He can’t ask what happened. He’s not sure he would ever be able to stop thinking about the answers. And he knows that if those who did this to Sherlock aren’t already dead, if he knew who they were, they would have to be. And he doesn’t have the luxury of giving in to those impulses anymore, no matter how much he longs to.

His mind shudders away from the next obvious question: if what John can see is this bad, how much worse are the scars Sherlock can hide away in his own mind?

“My god, Sherlock. Why did you never tell me?” he chokes out. He wants to be angry, because angry beats horrified any day of the week, but he doesn’t quite get there.

There is a pause, and Sherlock shifts a bit, so he can look at John. “I hoped to avoid causing you unnecessary discomfort,” he admits in a low tone. His face is more resigned than anything, but there is the slightest waver in his voice that no one but John would notice.

For just an instant, John wants to shake him. “How in the bloody buggering fuck can you stand there, worried about my discomfort when you-“ He stops, because his voice fails him, too high and too rough with the strain of everything that wants bleed out of him when he thinks about Sherlock suffering and all alone.

“There is no reason for this conversation. It’s regrettable that you had to see this, but it’s irrelevant to our current situation. As you can see, all of the injuries have long since healed. I can assure you I’m fine,” Sherlock tells him.

The waver is gone, his voice is almost calm, but it’s not anything Sherlock says that has John gulping in a deep breath while he fights not to step forward and trace his hands over each mark. It’s the plea in his eyes that begs John to let it go, to move them both past the moment that must have him feeling far too exposed already.

John nods and pushes down the tangle of grief, denial, and pain he’s far too familiar with. He isn’t the one who was clearly tortured, no matter how much what he’s looking at rips at his guts. The least he can do is respect Sherlock’s wishes on the matter.

“Alright. Yeah.” He has to stop, clear his throat and his voice is still too thick. It’s an effort to make himself let go of Sherlock’s wrist, but he does. But there’s one more thing he needs to say. “Thank you.” John’s voice is still a bit wrecked, but he’s not sure he’s ever meant anything more than those two words. For a moment, he wants to keep talking, a string of apologies that won’t help but he manages to clamp his mouth shut. He knows Sherlock will hear the apology that lurks beneath his gratitude, that he can already separate out the threads of fury and violence that he’s fighting to contain.

There’s a brief moment where everything is silent, as if all the air vanished from the room. 

Then Sherlock gives a tiny nod, and looks at him like he’s never seen him before. “You don’t need to thank me, John,” he says, and he’s so spectacularly wrong about that. 

But he’s still talking. “It was worth it, every single second.” 

The words are more than John expected, so much more, and the implications steal his breath. 

He watches the tall, still too-thin form as Sherlock walks toward his bedroom, but by the time he can speak again, Sherlock is closing his door with the barest hint of his usual decisive click.

Skills he hasn’t used in years, hammered into him in the worst times of his life, are what get John through the rest of the evening. Oh he knows Sherlock sees he is upset, but when they go out to dinner a bit later, with Sherlock once again in his usual impeccable suit, the conversation is nearly as easy as ever.

He keeps everything locked down so tightly his jaw aches from the tension, but he gives Sherlock the normalcy he clearly needs just then. Or at least what passes for normal for them.

But when he goes up the stairs at Mary’s later, he’s limping. 

Mary’s made it out of bed onto the sofa, some movie or other on the telly, but she looks up to smile at him as he comes in. 

He’s about to go over to give her a kiss, when the last of his control shatters and he barely makes it to the toilet before his dinner makes a violent reappearance.

When he’s done, he rinses his mouth, and makes his way back to the living room. “Sorry. I’m sorry about that,” he apologizes, then simply crumples into the sofa as his legs won’t hold him. He can’t tell her, they aren’t his secrets to share, though he wonders if it would make the weight of it any lighter if he did. 

He’s never wished he was Sherlock Holmes before; he wouldn’t want to be held hostage to his own brain, at the mercy of so much more input than anyone should have to know what to do with. But for just a moment, he wishes he was the one who had gone through whatever private hell had left such permanent reminders on his skin. He wishes he could delete the whole miserable conversation from his mind. But that’s not right either; if Sherlock had to survive it, he can at least stand to know about it. Or at least, he thinks he can, even if he isn’t exactly sure just then.

***

The next morning, Mary makes no mention of his near meltdown, doesn’t even ask if he is alright. In fact the day goes so well, he feels the worst of the tangled knot in his chest ease. He reminds himself that there is no point to tormenting himself about not-so-ancient history, that eventually his vivid memories of the scars will stopping popping into his brain at all hours of the day and night.

But it eats at him, how very close Sherlock must have come to death. And that leads him to the inevitable realization that he still could die, they both could, chasing down any one of the criminals who catch their attention.

He’s already been through it once, and losing Sherlock nearly ended him. John’s not sure he can face it again. Even worse, part of him wonders how he’ll face it if it happens, knowing he’s keeping such a large part of his feelings hidden. It’s the right thing to do, he knows it is, but it burrows under his skin and won’t stop pushing at him. 

Sherlock’s always been honest with him about who he is and what he feels and he can’t say the same. It’s wrong, he knows it, but it’s the wrong thing for the right reason, and he tells himself that has to be enough. And he thinks he’s doing okay with it all, until he isn’t.

***

The flat is dark, and he only turns on one lamp, while he and Mary sit with the telly muted in the background. Finally, he can’t stand the silence anymore. “What is it? Are you unhappy?” It’s on the tip of his tongue to beg her to tell him what he’s done wrong, but he keeps it behind his teeth, if only barely.

“No, John.” Mary looks at him, and her eyes are warm, which is a good thing, he’s almost sure. She’d only been willing to say they needed to talk when they got home, nothing more. And the wait had nearly killed him.

“I’m not leaving. I’m not unhappy.” The words are calm and confident, and the terror clutching low in his belly eases, even as she continues.

“I’m not unhappy, but you are. You just keep trying to keep yourself so busy you don’t notice, like the fact you’ve managed to go to war with yourself is a minor inconvenience.

His head whips up so quickly, his neck twinges, but Mary lays a finger against his lips before he can voice his denial.

“We’ve always been honest with each other. Now you need to be honest with yourself.”

As if from a great distance, John feels himself start to shake. This can’t be happening. He’s been so careful to lock away whatever he felt for Sherlock, because no one was supposed to see how conflicted he was, the unhappiness that cracks through the foundations of everything else when he didn’t have the energy to keep his guard up.

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, looks down and shakes his head helplessly. There’s nothing he can say, no way he could possibly make her understand that doesn’t leave her feeling as if she is somehow inadequate, when nothing could be further from the truth.

He’s the broken one in this equation, it just took him too long to see he couldn’t be fixed.

Mary is still quiet, waiting for some kind of answer, until she lifts a finger under his chin and tilts his head up. “Oh,” she breathes it, a pleased sound that he doesn’t understand.

“I thought you were clueless but I was wrong. You know you have feelings for him, you just didn’t want me to know.”

He wants to deny it, and the fact he can’t makes him shudder as his gaze drops. “I’m sorry.” Weak and stupid, of course it is, but it’s all he can say. He takes a quick breath, braces himself for what will come next. 

But there is no screaming, no crying, only a short pause, and then Mary speaks again. Her voice is soft and gentler than he thinks he’s ever heard it before. 

“Are you in love with him?”

Amazingly, it’s not the demand she has every right to make. She sounds more curious than anything else, but her tone makes tears want to gather behind his eyes.

He’s always been brave when it would be smartest and safest not to be. He can’t change now. Besides, after letting her down this way, he owes her the truth.

“I tried not to, you have no idea how I tried,” he begins, then forces himself to look her in the eye. “But, I am, yeah.” He swallows the reflexive apology that won’t mean anything and tries to remember she said she wasn’t leaving. But that was before he confessed. Everything is different now.

He lets his eyes slide shut, just for a few seconds, then looks up again. 

But Mary hasn’t moved, and still shows no signs of temper or devastation. Instead she looks thoughtful.

“John, breathe,” she commands, with a light touch on his arm. 

He gulps air, feels it shudder through him, but he still can’t get enough of it. 

She waits until he is steadier, before she speaks again. “I know you’re scared, sweetheart. But I meant what I said, I’m not going anywhere. I just think we should talk about it, because you’ve clearly gotten muddled up.”

This is so not how he thought this would go, that curiosity sparks with confusion for just a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m no genius, but even I knew from the get go the two of you were a package deal. And now that I know exactly what that means for you, I want us to figure out how to make sure we both get what we need.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes. He can’t be hearing her right. She can’t possibly mean what he thinks she means.

“And right now, John, what I need is for you to understand that love isn’t ever supposed to be about denying who you are. I never want being with me to turn into a cage that steals away pieces of you, not even the ones that are hard for me to accept and understand.” Mary’s voice is less calm now, but she continues anyway. 

“Do you really think so little of me, that you think I would believe you love me any less, just because you love him too?” And here is the pain, bleeding through in her expression, and tightening her voice.

He reaches to take her hand, back on solid ground in the face of her suffering. “No. No of course not. I just didn’t want to hurt you, never thought in a million years that you – that anyone - could ever accept this.” He stops, to give himself a minute to find the right words. “After everything you’ve done for me, everything we’ve built, the idea of hurting you is almost more than I can bear.” And it’s okay that his voice is as shaky as his hands, if it helps her to see how hard this is.

“I understand. I do,” she tells him, and steals a kiss before she leans back again. “But you’ll only hurt me if you keep using me as the reason to hide from what you feel. Because you need him, and we both know it.” Tears spill over, but her chin juts out in the way it always does when she means to stand her ground.

John feels his breath hitch as the truth of that resonates through him. And it’s the most amazing thing, to hear someone he trusts so much say it out loud.

But then his breath goes short again and sweat beads on his forehead. All the hairs on his neck stand up. 

Even with Mary’s blessing, he doesn’t think he can risk telling Sherlock, knowing he could lose him all over again. And even the thought of how it could possibly work, the three of them together, makes his head spin while his heart roars in his ears.

He stammers like an idiot, but manages to explain enough of what he’s feeling that Mary smiles at him, wide and warm. “Oh John, I do love you, but you’re an idiot.”

He blinks. It’s unexpected, even if he knows it’s usually true.

“I know you listened, but I’m not sure you heard him when he spoke at the wedding. The man practically worships you. But he’s had so little real acceptance and love in his life, he’s more clueless – and likely terrified – than you are.”

Her absolute certainty stuns him. 

“He’s in love with you,” she insists. “But it’s tearing him apart because he thinks he’s done something wrong. I’d call him an idiot, if it didn’t make me so sad.”

He shakes his head before she finishes the sentence. “You can’t know that.”

“Neither can you, unless you talk to him.” She pauses to hold up a hand before he can interrupt. “You know he wouldn’t have said all those things if he didn’t mean it. He said he’ll be there for us no matter what. And that includes a long overdue dose of honesty.”

But it’s not that simple, and John knows it. Putting their friendship back together after one of them came back from the dead sounds easy if you stack it up against keeping things normal after some grand declaration of feelings, at least when the declaration is to Sherlock caring-is-not an-advantage Holmes. 

“I think you need to talk to him, but I can’t force you. It makes me worry for my sanity at times, but I love him, too. I want both of you to be happy, and I think you really could be, if you just gave yourself permission.”

He can feel his breath speeding up as he stares at her. “What exactly are you saying? You’re fine with the idea of me shagging Sherlock?”

He waits for the bluntness to get to her, but she meets his gaze with only mild irritation. 

“We both know that’s not all you want from him. I’m saying it’s okay with me if you want him to be with you and also be with me, however that works out. If you just want to shag him, fine. But, if you want to make him a part of our family, so much the better.”

He looks at her, totally at a loss for words.

For the first time, uncertainty creeps into Mary’s expression. “I don’t mean I want to be with him that way. Though I suppose I can’t completely rule it out, eventually, if he’s okay with that.” 

She bites her lip the way she does when she’s annoyed with herself. “I can’t say how it will work, John. Only that I believe it can work, if you find the spine to talk to him about it.”

Her tone’s gone a bit sharp, but John figures she’s entitled. He lets himself consider it then, what it could be like, how very right even the idea of it seems. It’s lucky he’s sitting, because the surge of longing it brings cuts him off at the knees. 

But the best he can give her is that he will think about it.

***

The next day is jarringly normal. They have breakfast before work. Mary fetches the marmalade, just as she always does, and complains that the toast is a bit burnt.

He catches himself looking at her searchingly a few times, but she doesn’t notice, or at the very least she doesn’t comment.

She’s due in before he is, so she leaves first, and when she does, she kisses him goodbye like always. “Relax,” she murmurs against his lips when she pulls back. “We’re fine, and so are you.”

And he tries to calm the hell down, he really does. But like anything else, the harder he tries not to think about it, the more it crowds into his thoughts and steals his ability to focus on the everyday, mundane details.

It starts with one or two drops and crests into a wave that swamps him, leaves him exhausted. Battles are always difficult, but fighting with himself is ten times worse.

And the snapshots of Sherlock’s scars still like to ambush him randomly and leave him swimming in guilt.

He’s still undecided, so horribly uncertain, but then he starts to notice the changes in Sherlock. Nothing big enough to be truly alarming. But he knows his friend well enough to recognize the subtle withdrawal he sees over the next few days. 

Of course, he’s always been prone to going distant now and again, but this is different. Sherlock starts giving him space, enough that people might think he suddenly cared about personal boundaries. He doesn’t text in the middle of the night, unless John texts him first. And he doesn’t ask John to join him on cases as often, and when he does ask, it’s not at all hours, expecting John to drop everything. 

John could overlook all of that, but then he realizes Sherlock keeps using his must-try-to-look normal in public mask when there’s just the two of them. And that’s just not okay, not even one little bit. Taken together, all the little things add up to a big problem. Sherlock is slipping away from him by inches, and he hates that, but he knows that if he tries to hold on, it will just make his friend bolt farther and faster.

He lets himself think it over for another day. When they go to bed that night, he rolls to face Mary and clears his throat.

“You’re right. I need to talk to Sherlock. Something’s off, with him. I don’t know if he figured it out, or what, but we need to sort things out.

She leans over to hug him, then raises an eyebrow. “I’m glad. Do you want me to come with you?”

He’s thought about that, run it through in his head more times than he can count, really. “Yes. I really do. But, I think I need to do this on my own, no safety net.”

Mary nods, like she expects that answer, and he can see the little lines around her eyes that she gets when she worries over something.

“And by sort things out you mean yell at each other, possibly throw a few things, deny anything is wrong and then finally talk it through?”

He didn’t think anything could do it, but a smile sneaks through the dread. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Alright,” Mary nods. “Whatever you can do to make things right between you. I just thought my being there might be easier.”

He wants to laugh at the idea that anything about having this conversation will be easy, but he appreciates the thought.

“I’ll text you, or call if I need reinforcements, how about?” John makes himself suggest, even though it feels like it might be too much to ask.

But Mary only smiles and cuffs him lightly on his good shoulder. “As if you could keep me away.”

***

John doesn’t bother to text Sherlock to tell him he’s coming. He already knows the latest case was just solved, and is too familiar with the post case routine to expect him to be anywhere else but home, probably on the sofa, either sulking or giving in to his body’s need for sleep like any other mere mortal.

If he’s asleep, he’ll just have to wake up, and if he’s sulking, at least John won’t have to worry about spoiling his mood.

When he opens the door, his mouth is too dry and his hands are clammy, but he climbs the stairs without hesitating. If he can invade Afghanistan, he can do this. No one is likely to shoot at him here, or at least, only one person. Better odds.

It makes him smile when he walks in to see Sherlock on the sofa, feet trailing off the end. 

Sherlock looks up as John comes in, already adding up all the facts he can deduce from a cursory inspection. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone as close to civil as it ever gets post case.

“That’s what I came to ask you,” John tells him. “Can you sit up, please? I’d rather not be your foot stool while we talk.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock asserts. “Well, unless you count boredom.” But he shimmies into a sitting position and John sits down facing him.

“You’ve been acting strangely for a bit too long for me to ignore, Sherlock. Since when don’t you call me for all the cases? And when did you give up texting me except between nine and five?” Put that way, it sounds ridiculous, like he’s calling his friend out for being too considerate. But it’s too late to back out now.

Sherlock moves backward, pressing himself as far back into the corner of the sofa as he can, and he opens his mouth to reply, but John interrupts. 

“And that’s another thing: you keep jerking away from me like a scalded cat. What’s going on with you?”

Sherlock goes still for a second or two, then looks down his nose. “Typical. You think something is wrong when I’m simply attempting to be respectful of your changed circumstances.”

John blinks and silently repeats the words to himself before responding. “You mean to say this is all because I got married?”

Sherlock flinches, just the smallest of abortive movements, but somehow still manages a regal nod. “Correct.” 

The extra emphasis on the final consonant in the word fades away before he answers. “I appreciate the effort, but I meant it when I told you that me being married wasn’t going to change anything.”

“Let’s not delude ourselves, John. That may be what you hoped for but it isn’t practical. You _are_ married, to say nothing of the impending responsibilities of fatherhood. I’ve been informed that if I am truly your friend, I must be willing to make allowances for the changes both of those things will bring.”

“Since I’m the one you’re friends with, don’t you think what I need or don’t need should be up to me?” John demands. It means a lot that Sherlock would make such an effort, but in that moment, he wishes he could go find each person who decided to stick their nose into what should have been private business and smack them.

Sherlock swallows before he replies. “Perhaps you’re right,” he agrees, but his eyes go shuttered, and his face blank.

It’s an effort, but John manages not to yell. “Don’t do that. I know you well enough to know when you’re humouring me, Sherlock and if I wanted to see the act you do for the press and the public, I’d turn on the telly.”

A deep breath, in through John’s nose and out through his mouth, then another and he is a bit calmer when he continues.

“Look, I know this has been tough on you, but it’s not easy for me either you know.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure it’s terribly difficult for you, being handed everything you ever wanted,” Sherlock retorts. His fingers clench in the folds of his dressing gown and he leans forward, like he wants to say more, and only barely manages to stop.

“Shows what you know about it, then. I can’t have everything I want,” John retorts, then snaps his mouth shut when he realizes he let his temper push him to say too much. 

Too late. Sherlock’s gaze goes sharp and intent. “Explain.” And it’s clearly an order.

John squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a chill sweep over his skin. Now that he knows the problem isn’t his stupid, inconvenient feelings, he could simply deflect. He probably should. But, he came over here to get everything out in the open, and he’s so tired of hiding and lying, even if it is with what he doesn’t say.

It’s going to be awkward as hell, he knows. But at least it will be over. “It’s complicated,” he begins, and Sherlock sneers at that, but John ignores the look. 

“The thing is, I can’t have everything I want because you’re not interested in relationships.” He says it all in a rush, and it’s too fast, but at least he got it out.

“And before you say it, I know you told me a long time ago that it’s impossible. And I accept that, I do.” He pauses to shrug. “But you’re...well, you’re you, so fucking extraordinary, it’s no wonder my stupid heart didn’t bother to listen.”

Sherlock’s head tilts to the side, and he takes a quick breath, then hesitates. When he speaks, there is no trace of mockery.

“Impossible. You love Mary. It’s patently obvious in your every interaction with her.” There’s a strange intensity to the words, like they’re an often repeated phrase.

“Yes,” John agrees. “I love her very much.” He stops, tries to find the words, and ignore the stampede of butterflies through his stomach. “But, what I feel for her couldn’t change what I feel for you, and she knows it. She’s the one who first told me I needed to tell you, actually.” He runs a hand through his hair, and tries to force himself to keep talking.

“Tell me what?” 

Sherlock’s irritated demand is so familiar John almost smiles.

“Please don’t hate me for telling you this.” It’s half to himself and he chokes before he continues. “I love you.” Fear pounds at him, when the words echo in the air. He actually said it. He’s lost his mind. But he’s set on it now. And he’ll finish it out. “And no, before you ask, I don’t mean platonically, I mean as in full on makes-me-fucking crazy in love with you. Have done for years.”

Sherlock goes so still he looks more like a statue than a man. “If you were anyone else, I’d think this was a joke at my expense.” 

“I’m not joking,” His voice cracks, so John clears his throat. “I didn’t tell you to make you uncomfortable or because I expect anything from you. I just thought you should know, before it’s another problem that strains things between us.”

But it dawns on him then, Sherlock’s face doesn’t hold disgust or disdain. In fact, he looks downright confused. And for a few seconds, there’s something that looks almost like fear in his eyes.

And that hits John like a punch to the gut. Oh god, he should have kept his mouth shut. Nothing is worth putting that look on his best friend’s face. 

Before he can speak, Sherlock shifts forward, and shakes his head. “You must be mistaken. You of all people know I’m not the sort that people care for in that way. I’m arrogant, selfish, and rude, and that’s the better qualities. There’s not nearly enough good to balance that out.” 

“You can be all of those things, yeah. But, I also know how much you care about people, even when you try not to. I’ve seen you at your worst, but I’ve seen what you can do when you’re at your best and believe me they do balance out. Besides all that, I know my own mind. Don’t deny what I feel just because you can’t return it.” He’s perilously close to begging, but in that moment, it doesn’t matter.

Sherlock’s knuckles go white where he grips his dressing gown, and he swallows hard. “What if I could return it? What would you feel for me then?” he asks, his voice more uncertain than John thinks he’s ever heard.

The longing is familiar, but edged with fear as it washes through him. John pushes it aside enough that he can find his voice. There’s so much crowding his mind at that moment, it’s hard to get words out.

“There’s nothing you can say or do that will change what I feel for you, Sherlock. You died, I thought I would follow you. But none of that changes this for me. I don’t love you because I expect reciprocity, you mad idiot. I love you because there’s no part of me that will ever be able to stop. You’re as much a part of me as Mary is, as much a part of me as my next breath.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, and he moves then, shifts so close to John they share the same air. He looks at John like whatever he sees holds the answers to every important question in the universe.

John simply sits there, and lets the truth of it all, what he knows in his bones, shine on his face, in every line of his body. It catches his breath and makes him shake, but he does it while he fights the urge to hide or brace for impact.

Even if this all blows up spectacularly in his face, Sherlock will never intentionally hurt him. But he will also never be the one to put everything on the line like this, so that means it’s John’s job to take a chance.

He has to force himself not to twitch when Sherlock reaches out and trails the tips of his fingers gently over the contours of John’s cheek.

Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because he speaks again. “There’s never been anyone who was worth enough to change my rules about this. Every attempt I made at some kind of relationship ended so badly it was a horrendous distraction.” 

The waver is back, and John knows understatement when he hears it but he stays silent, even though his jaw tightens at the implications.

“At the time I concluded that personal relationships, more specifically romantic attachments, were simply an area of life in which I was meant to be an observer.” The words are overly precise, but they trail off as Sherlock looks at him again, eyes gone dark and focused.

“I’ve never regretted that decision...until now. You make me want to believe I can trust you enough to learn, that I can have that with you.”

John’s voice has gone thick and clumsy, but it doesn’t matter. “You already have it, you great idiot. And of course you can learn. I’ll teach you; we both will, if you’ll let us.”

The mention of Mary, even indirectly, brings another barely-there flinch. “It was never my intention to interfere in your relationship with her.” 

Stilted and overly formal, the words cost him, John can tell. And he can’t stay still anymore. He shifts his weight forward so he can put his arms around Sherlock’s waist, and pull him close, resting their foreheads together.

“I know that. We both do, but you can’t possibly interfere, not if we want you there.”

Sherlock’s expression slides into a grimace. “I cannot think of a single reason why she would even accept my being a part of it, never mind want it.”

“Nevertheless, she does. And she is a woman who knows her own mind. She loves you, too. She must, she puts up with you as well as I do.”

Sherlock’s nod of reply is slow. The last part at least is true and he knows it.

The silence draws out then, still and heavy. And John fights a rising tide of embarrassment and panic. He knows his detective enough well to know he needs time to process important decisions. And he hasn’t run screaming yet, so there’s that.

Then, after another span of heartbeats that stretch out impossibly long, Sherlock speaks. “There are a multitude of reasons why this is a spectacularly bad idea,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath scented with the tea he must have had earlier. His voice is desperate, like he’s working to convince himself of his own words.

Honesty compels John’s answer. “There are, yeah.” It’s his turn now, to reach out and cup his hand around the side of Sherlock’s face, gentle but insistent.

“But there’s one really good reason why we should do it anyway.” And then he grabs on to what’s left of his courage, and leans over so he can seal his mouth against Sherlock’s.

For one second, while he can still think, it occurs to him that he didn’t think this through. Because if he thought his need was big before, the wave is practically a tsunami now. But he doesn’t care, not if he can have this. 

Even better, Sherlock doesn’t flinch or pull away. His hands come up to grip John’s shoulders and he deepens the kiss, pours all of his focus, all the intensity he usually reserves for the world around him into John. It’s good, so blisteringly good, so much better than John’s always thought it could be. But of course it is, it’s Sherlock, and he doesn’t have to deny what he wants any more. The relief of that is almost as intoxicating as the kiss. Almost.

He shifts back first, but Sherlock follows just after, as attuned as always to John’s cues.

And he’s smiling, just a little, but a real one that lights his eyes and straightens his shoulders. He stays like that and his hands move to stroke over top of John’s.

“That is a very good reason,” he agrees, as his voice goes rough around the edges. And then it’s Sherlock’s turn to lean forward and claim a searingly hot kiss that scorches through both of them and leads seamlessly into several more.

John’s not stupid enough to interrupt that, but eventually Sherlock’s big brain catches up with his hormones.

“As pleased as I am with this development, I don’t know how to do this with one person, never mind two,” he admits, clearly reluctant. “As much as I care for Mary, I rarely feel sexual attraction for females.”

John feels his heart kick up several notches, like he’s been running uphill in full gear. It doesn't sound like much of an admission, but Sherlock says he’s pleased in the same tone someone else might shout their love from the rooftops.

With an effort, John keeps his tone light. “I said she loves you, not that she wants to jump you. Don’t think you need to worry on that score.” He pauses, squeezes Sherlock’s hands in reassurance, and when he smiles it’s a bit wicked. “Though, she does like to watch, which might appeal to you, since you like to perform.”

His breath catches as soon as the words are out; he can’t believe he actually said that out loud. 

But Sherlock laughs, low and quiet and his eyes gleam with interest. “Duly noted.” Then he tips his weight forward to pin John to the couch and kiss him again, this time tracking down his jaw line to taste the skin of his throat.

In that position there’s no way John can miss it when Sherlock’s breathing speeds up and the body on top of him goes tense, one long rigid line that contrasts with the warm and pliant tangle of only seconds before.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice careful and quiet, as he shifts them around so Sherlock is cradled against his chest.

Letting his hair fall forward, Sherlock curls in on himself as much as he can and squeezes his eyes shut.

“It’s just...I can’t turn it off...” he trails off but the apology is clear.

“I know that. Of course I know that. I didn’t ask you too. And I wouldn’t,” John tells him. “Tell me what’s knocking around in that head of yours, instead of picking at it, why don’t you?” It hurts to see Sherlock so upset for just being himself.

But he’s careful to show only the concern, and none of the anger that bubbles up when he thinks about what’s been done to this beautiful man, to make him default to being misunderstood.

“I heard what you said, and I believe you,” Sherlock tells him, eyes still fixed on John’s chest. “But, really John, what could you possibly want with me, when you already have someone who compliments you in so many ways?”

The idea that he can be wanted, just for himself, and not for his skills, could be loved even, is clearly the next thing to a completely foreign concept to Sherlock. And that brings back the anger, because anger is so much easier for John to deal with. But anger is not what Sherlock needs from him right now.

“Ever since I can remember, there’s been a piece of me missing,” John starts, and ignores how his voice shakes. “When you were gone, I told myself of course there was, and did my best to survive, but that’s all I was doing, surviving. Once I met Mary, I started to enjoy my life again, bits and pieces of it. But the thing is, after you came back, there was still a piece missing.” He stops and swallows hard. 

He needs the tiny bit of space to push away the memories of the Fall its aftermath.

Sherlock presses closer but says nothing, only waits to hear more.

The small reassurance makes warmth slide through John’s veins and into his chest. “I understand now why you kept pushing me away, but even that small bit of space is too much. I need you to be there when I turn to look for you, to talk to you. And I’ll always look for you, because there’s a part of me what only feels alive when you’re right next to me. No matter how often you arrow straight into danger, the only place I want to be is right beside you.”

He stops again, this time to try to find the right words. “Mary and I have something that I’m not sure I could explain in a way even you could fully understand, but I would tell her the same thing about you and I. Because there aren’t words that fully explain what each of you are to me, and all the different ways I need you, both of you.

Like it or not, you’re the piece that’s missing. And I can’t change it. I only fought it because I thought you’d want me gone if you found out. You’ll just have to accept it, Sherlock. I was yours long before I was hers. It just took me longer to figure that out.”

“It isn’t very often someone else deduces something before I do,” Sherlock says, his voice almost too low to hear properly. “But I’m very grateful you have,” he finishes, and looks at John, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and wonder.

“I wish you could see what I see, when I look at you. You might understand better then, why you matter so much,” John tells him, and he doesn’t care that he has to swallow down a knot of emotion again.

Sherlock nods, then looks down. “At the moment, I’d settle for seeing more of you,” comes the too quick reply.

“I can arrange that,” John lets him lighten the atmosphere then, and gives in to the grin that wants to escape.

In an effort of monumental self control, they agree not to move past rather heated snogging, for now. John explains he wants all three of them to talk before things progress further. There’s too much room for absolutely spectacular errors to start taking chances at this juncture. 

It’s difficult, because his brain thinks it’s been taken offline by his hormones. And by this point, neither of them have much left on in the way of clothes, so Sherlock’s skin is just all there and terribly distracting. 

But he knows Sherlock will need to see for himself, to know with absolute certainty that Mary feels what John says she does. And he also knows that Sherlock would probably rather face paperwork or shopping or a week without nicotine before he would admit he needs reassurance.

Judging by his erratic breathing and the slight shaking in his hands, Sherlock is similarly distracted. But when he looks up, his whole face lights up with one of his John got it right smiles.

“That is acceptable,” he murmurs.

Later, Sherlock asks him to stay, just to sleep. He looks like he expects John to say no, so naturally John takes great pleasure in accepting the invitation

He’ll never admit it, but he thinks Sherlock’s hesitant look is adorable and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be just then. Once his detective falls asleep, deep even breaths tickle his ear as he texts Mary to let her know things went okay. And he knows, in that moment, that somehow it will all work out. And it will be brilliant.

***FIN***


End file.
